


One Assassination Coming Right Up

by whenshewrites



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Accidental Assassination Attempt, Aged-Up Characters, Alternate Universe-Human, Assassin Derek Hale, Canon-Typical Violence, Derek Hale is Bad at Feelings, Derek Hale is Not Amused, Derek Hale is Not a Failwolf, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, FBI Stiles Stilinski, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Idiots in Love, M/M, Misunderstandings, Scott McCall is a Good Friend, Stiles Stilinski is a Little Shit, Stiles Stilinski is a Tease, hitman derek hale
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:08:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24638890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whenshewrites/pseuds/whenshewrites
Summary: A drunk Stiles meant to order pizza, but accidentally ordered a hit on his own life instead. Realizing the next morning that he’s being hunted by the terrifying Hale assassin, he leads Derek on a wild goose chase trying to save his own skin.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 56
Kudos: 157
Collections: Sterek Goodness





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr prompt/inspiration here: [prompt](https://when-she-writes-stuff.tumblr.com/post/620490030867218432/this-prompt)

The thing is, Stiles didn’t mean to order his own assassination. But then Scott got him drunker than he’d been in years, Stiles went home with a craving for pizza, and one thing led to another.

He still wasn’t sure how it’d happened. 

But Stiles woke up the next morning with a text from a number he didn’t recognize reading; _‘Target locked down. Estimated completion time: six hours’_ and he’d never felt so awake in his life.

Stiles stared at the message for a second. Then, he unlocked his phone and sent the timid reply of; _‘Scott?’_

Except, his messages weren’t going through. A little red exclamation point appeared next to his message every time Stiles tried to send it and no matter how many times he hit ‘retry’ nothing changed. 

Stiles was more than awake now, despite his pounding head. Sitting up, he blinked at the message, the unknown number, and then scrolled to Scott’s name, hitting the call button.

The phone rang several times before Scott answered. 

“Dude,” Scott’s said, voice ragged with sleep. “I’m so hungover I can barely think straight. Why are you awake at eight in the morning?”

“I think I did something.”

“Like? Oh, dude, please tell me you didn’t get a gym membership again. I told you, drunk ideas are never good ideas. Treadmills suck.”

“No, Scott, I didn’t get a gym membership again,” Stiles said, voice trembling slightly. If Scott really was this hungover, that message clearly hadn’t been a prank from him. And if it hadn’t been a prank from him, then… “Dude, it is possible to order an assassination on someone?”

He heard the sound of Scott sitting straight up. His friend sounded much more awake when his voice came through again. “What?”

“Say I meant to order pizza and ordered an assassination instead. How possible is that?”

“Dude, how drunk were you?”

“Scott! I just told you I might have ordered someone’s death and you want to know how drunk I was? Clearly, drunk enough to mistake a hitman for a pizza place!”

“Dude,” Scott said, sounding a little less shocked. “There’s no way you drunk ordered an assassin. Things like that don’t happen. A stripper assassin, maybe, but not an actual assassin.”

“I got a message,” Stiles said. “I think it happened.”

“It’s probably just someone messing with you. Don’t you think a hitman service would be a little more careful than letting drunks order their services? And wouldn’t that be some illegal black market kind of stuff? I mean, you don’t accidentally try to assassinate someone while ordering a pizza.”

Stiles relaxed a little at his best friend’s words. Scott was right, he had to admit. Drunks didn’t accidentally stumble across professional assassins when they were trying to curb their hunger. Things like that didn’t happen.

“Anyway,” Scott said, sounding tired again. “We got thrown out of three bars last night. I’m sure someone got your number and is either trying to send payback, or just thinks it’s funny. What’s the message say anyway?”

Stiles pulled the phone away from his ear and checked. His heart was definitely pounding less as he read it again. It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.

“Target locked down. Estimated completion time: six hours.”

“Stiles, man, that sounds like some Call of Duty crap. Trust me, you’re fine. Who would you order a hit on anyway?”

“Jackson?”

Scott snorted through the phone. Stiles relaxed back onto his bed, feeling much less terrified than he had been five minutes ago. Of course, he didn’t remember anything from last night, but he hadn’t gotten drunk enough to order an assassination. And… how hard would that be? It couldn’t be as easy as ordering Dominos.

“Okay, dude,” Stiles said with a sigh. “I’m freaking out about nothing. I’ll call you in six hours when I’m still alive and not hungover, and maybe we can get dinner later?”

“As long as you don’t take us to a butcher shop instead of a restaurant, I’m down.”

“Haha,” Stiles said. “Very funny. Go back to sleep asshole.”

“I’m planning on it, man.”

Stiles rolled his eyes and hung up the phone. He turned his face into his pillow with a long groan; his head felt like someone had taken a sledgehammer to it. He was never drinking again.

“Okay,” he said into his pillow. “I’m avoiding ordering pizza in the near future.” Precautions, because he was a cautious person.

Sometimes.

Stiles knocked out for another few hours and checked his phone again when he woke up, but there were no new messages. Clearly, it’d been a mistake. Or a joke. Or something. The point was, no one was dying in… three hours, when Stiles checked the time again. No one was dying.

He hadn’t ordered an assassination. Not even on Jackson Whittemore, the douchebag from Stiles’s childhood. He wasn’t that cruel.

Usually.

Stiles forced himself out of bed around noon and took a shower, before cooking himself a meal of bacon, cheesy eggs, and the rest of the chocolate milk in the carton. He felt sick right after and decided to never have bacon, eggs, or chocolate milk again either. 

No more alcohol and no more greasy breakfasts. He wasn’t in college anymore; he didn’t have the edge he used to.

Stiles was going to pull a mature adult™ and drink nothing but coffee. For the rest of his life.

It was nearing two when he was crashed on the couch, watching some mind-numbing television show. He knew he should be checking in with his boss; Stiles wasn’t supposed to have a shift today, but he got random calls at random times. Even on Sundays when he was supposed to be spending the entire day in his boxers, not filing papers and pretending he was making more use of his forensics degree then he really was.

His phone read one fifty-eight. Stiles felt nervous for some reason, even though he knew he shouldn’t be. It’d be six hours in two minutes— but no one was getting killed. Stuff like that didn’t happen in real life.

The clock hit one fifty-nine. And his phone beeped as the message _‘Target in sight’_ came through.

Stiles’s heart stopped and he dropped his phone. Staring at the screen for a moment longer, he reached down to pick it up right as the clock hit two. 

There was the sound of shattering glass and his TV screen cracked. 

Stiles yelped and tumbled off the couch, faceplanting onto the floor. He looked up right as another bullet embedded in the TV and the screen went black. Heart leaping into his throat, Stiles scrambled for his phone and stuck it into his pocket before he dropped to the floor again.

This couldn’t be happening. _This couldn’t be happening._

Stiles was a dumb drunk, but he wasn’t dumb enough to order a hit on himself. Sure, he sometimes complained about taking himself out, but that was when he’d been hit with a double shift or he’d missed the bus or something like that. Not because he actually wanted to _die._

No more shots were coming, but Stiles was scared to lift his head. He was pretty sure his couch was the only thing keeping him protected and he’d had seen enough action movies to know that ‘duck and cover’ was the most important thing about surviving an assassination.

Oh god. He was going to die. He was going to be assassinated.

_Assassinated._

Stiles quickly dialed Scott’s number and pulled his phone closer, heart thudding against his chest. He couldn’t die here. Not on his apartment floor with a sink of dirty dishes, overflowing trashcan, and fridge full of old Thai food that he was pretty sure had been in there for months.

Stiles had a reputation, dammit. His image would be ruined.

And his _computer search history._

“Stiles?” Scott’s came through much less tired than it had been earlier. “Let me guess, six hours later and there’s been no hit yet? Sometimes, man, I worry about—”

“Scott, someone is trying to kill me!”

Scott went silent. Then his voice came through again, smaller this time. “Is this a joke?”

“Scott, someone just shot out my TV so no, this is not a joke. And I swear to god dude, if I die like this, I need you to come over and erase all my internet history before my dad even gets a glimpse of the things I watch at night.”

“Stiles, I didn’t need to know that!”

“Scott, I’m dying!”

“Wait, dying, dying? Have you been shot?”

“No, Scott, I—” Stiles cut off with a yelp as a gunshot echoed over his head again. Apparently, his assassin was getting tired of him hiding behind the couch. Scott’s voice was coming through the phone again but Stiles wasn’t listening this time, looking toward the door. 

He could make it, he thought, if he moved fast enough. And if he got out onto the street, some crazy assassin wouldn’t try to take him out there, would he?

Would Stiles be safe? Or would he put more people at risk?

Stiles grabbed his phone and made his decision. Shoving himself up, he made for the door and couldn’t help his heart leaping into his throat as something cut past his face. He was stumbling out of his apartment less than a second later, slamming the door behind him and running as fast as he could down the hallway.

This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t actually be happening.

“Excuse me, young man,” a blonde-haired woman said, sticking her head out of her apartment. Stiles didn’t remember of his neighbors’ names except this one— and Karen never had anything nice to say. “But your video games are not good for my children to be hearing—”

“Not a video game!” Stiles said, ducking through the door that led to the stairs. He briefly caught her confused expression before the door was closing and he was taking the stairs two at a time.

Scott’s voice was still coming through the phone.

“Stiles! Stiles, let me know you’re not dead! I’m calling your dad. Dude, do I need to call your dad?”

“No!” Stiles yelped, shoving the phone back against his ear. “No calling my dad, Scotty, don’t you dare. I’m not going to die, everything’s going to be fine, and all I need to do is contact this assassin and tell him to call off the hit, right? Dude. Is it safe for me to be out in public?”

Scott was quiet on the other side. Stiles had reached the bottom floor and peeked out the exit, scanning the California streets. 

“Scotty?”

“Head to my place,” Scott said. “Allison’s still in Paris with her family and Isaac is at work until tonight. You can lay low here for a bit. Until you figure things out, right?”

“No way, dude, this guy shot out my windows! I’m taking Roscoe and hitting the road, not dragging you down with me. Um, quick question, do you think Lydia would be able to help me figure out how to contact him?”

“Why do you assume it’s a him?”

“... Is that really the question you’re focusing on right now?”

“Right. I’d call Lydia.”

Stiles agreed and promised to call him back in fifteen, before promptly hanging up. Stiles glanced out onto the street one more time before taking a deep breath and shoving himself out the door. He waited, but nothing happened, so he quickly started into the crowd.

This is not how Stiles had wanted to spend his Sunday. This is not how he’d expected his weekend to turn out. Or any part of his life, for that matter.

Stiles’s apartment was about as sad as apartments got— the only way he could afford a place as a recently graduated college student. Granted, he shared with a roommate that he’d only seen a handful of times in three years, but he wasn’t too worried about the window. Or the TV. 

Except, the landlord was probably going to kill him.

If the assassin didn’t first.

Stiles was in such a rush heading toward the place where he’d parked his jeep (a hidden street where he didn’t have to pay for a spot and it’d only gotten towed once) that he didn’t see the guy coming around the corner. Stiles ran right into him and stumbled back with a yelp, tripping over his own feet and falling hard to the ground.

“Oh shit,” the guy said, rushing forward with his phone in hand. “Shit, I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

Stiles blinked a few times.

Of all the days he could’ve run into a literal model, it had to be the one day his life was being threatened. The guy had the face of a Greek god and the sexiest eyebrows Stiles had ever seen. And his eyes. His _eyes._ Stiles happily took the hand offered, as the guy slipped his phone away and stepped forward.

“Fine,” Stiles said, forcing the words out. “It’s fine, totally fine. I was completely at fault there. It’s just not every day someone’s trying to kill you, you know?”

The guy blinked. Stiles thought over his last words and then chuckled weakly.

“Forget I said that.”

“You in a rush to get somewhere?”

 _Yeah,_ Stiles wanted to say, _because someone really is trying to kill me._ But instead, he shrugged and started toward his car. “Work.”

The guy was still walking at his side. Stiles glanced sideways and received a shy smile— then caught a flash of silver. He yanked back with a yelp, only three seconds before a blade cut through the air right in front of his face. 

“You basta—” Stiles cut off as he ducked another swing. He’d never been terribly agile, but he’d picked up a thing or two during his FBI internship a few years ago. Stiles had never been so grateful for the self-defense lessons he’d been forced to take.

So his attacker _was_ a him. Scott could suck it.

The guy came at him again and Stiles drove his knee up as hard as he could. He was rewarded with a grunt and kicked the guy back, before scrambling toward his jeep. 

He slammed the door shut right as the guy was there again. Stiles started the car and threw the gearshift into drive a second before his window was shattering and glass was tumbling across his lap. Squawking, Stiles hit the gas and went flying forward, down the empty street and toward the main one beyond. 

His window was shattered. Roscoe’s window was shattered.

Stiles hated his drunk self for this.

“Bastard!” he shouted out the window and the guy was just standing there, a look of rage on his face and blood trickling down his nose. It clicked, then, that Stiles could use this moment to try to clear things up, but he was also pretty sure he’d get a knife through the throat before he managed to do so.

And that was not a nice option.

“No pizza,” Stiles said, turning his eyes back toward the road. “No pizza ever again.”

He hated drunk Stiles.

Drunk Stiles deserved a knife through the throat for this.


	2. Chapter 2

Derek was pissed.

Watching the blue jeep pull away as blood flowed from his nose, his target sticking a middle finger out the window, Derek was totally and utterly pissed off. He couldn’t believe things had already started going so bad.

He never messed up a job. Never.

But somehow this guy— this  _ Stiles Stilinski—  _ had seen him coming. Derek didn’t even know how, dragging his phone out of his pocket and punching in Erica’s number. It only rang a few times before she picked up and her cheery voice echoed through.

“Der-bear! So, is this Stilinski kid KO'd? Do we get to request our payment now?”

“He got away.”

Silence was his answer for a long moment. Then Derek heard the sound of Erica taking a slow, cautious breath. It wasn’t often she got that surprised. “He got away? Like, away away?”

“Like, he’s gone and knows I’m after him,” Derek said, the words coming out in a growl. “Somehow, he knew I was coming. He knew someone was out to kill him.”

“Well, that’s unfortunate. I mean, not for Stilinski, but—”

“Erica,” Derek said, gripping the phone tighter. “How the hell did he know I was coming?”

“I don’t know. Why don’t you ask your client? And while you’re at it,” she said, “ask why the hell he wants Stilinski dead in the first place. I’ve been looking up the idiot, Derek, and he doesn’t seem like a very offensive character. He’s smart, he’s got a cluster of close friends, and he’s never committed a crime in his life. I mean, there’s one trespassing charge, but that’s really not so bad, is it?”

“My job isn’t to ask questions,” Derek said. “It’s to take the job and complete it. And I can’t do that if Stiles vanishes off the face of the earth.” And he didn’t want to say it, but his client hadn’t been very obvious about his identity. Derek had gotten the text from a blocked number containing an order of payment and a name. Nothing more. That wasn't unusual, really, but it made the task a little more difficult.

“You think you’re going to lose him?”

“I think I already have.”

“Shame,” Erica said, sighing. “Because I saw the offered payment. That’s gotta be someone’s life savings, don’t you think? They must really want this Stilinski dead.”

Derek growled and pulled the phone away, hanging up. As usual, Erica wasn’t that much help. He really should’ve expected that, though. She was only in the job for the thrill of, well, putting someone down. She scared even Derek sometimes.

No, he wasn’t losing Stiles that easy. The idiot was stupid enough to make conversation with his killer; Derek was sure he could catch up to him again. Not to mention his reputation was at stake here.

Derek was not messing up his first job because of some spastic, amber-eyed, basically-kid idiot. Seriously. The guy looked like he could still be in college.

That shouldn’t have made Derek’s stomach twist like it did. Usually, he didn’t ask questions. He wasn’t paid to.

“Dammit,” he said, turning away. Stiles couldn’t be that hard to track down again and Derek wasn’t giving up that easy. This was his job and he was good at it. Until now. He shoved his phone into his pocket and vowed to not take any more calls, not take any more jobs, until he finished this one. He was determined.

Dammit.

* * *

Stiles didn’t know how he was still alive, but he was extremely grateful for it.

He’d been camping out in his jeep for nearly half a day now and Scott was proving to be no help. Stiles had called in a panic earlier, eyeing the cut on the back of his hand that the asshole assassin had given him, and the other man had only managed to make him panic more. Because that’s exactly what Stiles needed. 

More panic.

Scott wasn’t even the one being hunted and  _ he  _ was freaking out.

Lydia was a lot more helpful. After not believing him for three calls, calling him an idiot for two more, and then agreeing to help during their last one, Stiles was just waiting on her now. He had faith in the red-haired goddess. Surely, she could figure out who Stiles had called for a hit and then he’d be able to reverse things.

Stiles was going to have so many stories for his future kids. They were going to think he was a liar.

Stiles’s dad could never hear about this.

He nearly leaped out of his skin when his phone rang and Lydia’s picture flashed across his screen. Stiles grabbed the phone so fast he nearly dropped it, hitting the answer button and shoving the phone against his ear. He’d never been so glad to hear Lydia’s voice before.

“Lyds, Lyds, oh my god, you strawberry-haired goddess. Please tell me you have the information that’s going to save my skin.”

“You’re lucky, I had the day off,” Lydia said. “But I’m demanding payment for this ridiculous waste of my time.”

“Uh... I’ll bring by a pizza if I’m still alive by the end of the week?”

“A pizza?”

“You’re right, I’ve sworn pizza off. Chinese food then.”

Lydia sighed and Stiles grinned to himself. “I don’t care what you bring, Stiles, just promise me you won’t do anything stupid like this again. I have no idea what your drunk self has against your sober self, but you have to had done some serious dark-web research to find Hale and his company.”

“Hale?”

“Derek Hale,” she said. “The assassin that's currently trying to kill you.”

The very mention of his imminent doom made Stiles glance over his shoulder, searching the empty road he’d pulled over on. But just like hours ago, it was empty of everyone and there wasn't a car in sight.

“Also, I feel the need to tell you,” Lydia said. “That you’re lucky to not have a hole in your head right now. He’s never had a failed hit before.”

“Lucky? Woman, I gave him a bloody nose. I’d have to say I’m pretty badass, not lucky.”

Once more, Lydia was sighing. “All I’m saying is, I’d get in contact with Hale and co as soon as possible and tell them that you’re an idiot that doesn’t wish to die. Unless you’d like to be another headline in the papers, that is.”

Stiles gulped. “Nope, I’d really rather not. Thank you so much, Lyds, you’re a goddess as usual.”

“I know,” Lydia said, sounding a little smug. “But I’ll be expecting Chinese food this Friday at six o'clock sharp. And none of that cheap stuff from the place that always gives you food poisoning.”

“But I have coupons,” Stiles whined. He could practically hear Lydia rolling her eyes.

“And I don’t have a death wish. Unlike you, clearly. Chinese food this Friday, as long as you’re not dead before then. And I’m not even talking about this current hit. Stop getting drunk with Scott, would you? Neither of you are college kids anymore.”

“I know,” Stiles said, glaring at his dashboard dejectedly. Things had been so much easier when they were. Lydia sighed again and hung up, and Stiles frowned at the black screen.

Lydia had sent him all the contact information for the company, along with the picture of his hitman; Derek Hale. Stiles had to admit the guy had eyebrows that made his boner curiously confused, and he really shouldn’t be so attracted to a man that killed people for a living.

But Stiles never claimed to have good self-preservation skills. And Derek Hale was a bit of a looker. Hitman or not.

“Dammit, Stiles,” he muttered to himself. “Bad thoughts. Stop it with the fear boners.”

He punched in the number for— he couldn’t believe this was his life— the hitman service. Stiles was totally going to give them a piece of his mind. And then delete the number from his phone forever. Because it’d be just his luck that he’d accidentally drunk-dial the company all over again.

“Hello?” a female voice came through.

“I have a bone to pick with you,” Stiles said. Then he winced, realizing that probably wasn’t the best way to start a conversation with a bunch of assassins. “In the best way possible.”

“I’m sorry, but who is this?”

“One of your clients.”

“Clients? I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t know what—”

“I accidentally ordered my own assassination.”

The line went quiet for a moment. Then, “I’m going to move you over to a more secure line. Do you mind going on hold for a few moments?”

Stiles sighed, but didn’t argue. He couldn’t believe he was sitting in his car on the side of an abandoned road, listening to elevator music as he tried to stop his own assassination. It was so ridiculous it should’ve been illegal.

Oh, wait.

Suddenly, the woman’s voice came through again. “I’m sorry, you said you did what?”

“I drunk ordered a hit. On myself.”

“On yourself.”

“On myself.”

For a moment, all he got was silence, and Stiles was suddenly terrified she’d hang up. But then he heard the sound of shuffling papers and the click of a pen. “Can I get your first and last name please, sir?”

“Stiles Stilinski.”

_ “You’re Stiles Stilinski?” _

“Uh,” Stiles said, tapping his fingers nervously against the steering wheel. “Yes?”

“Oh my god,” the woman said. “That’s how you knew he was coming.”

“That’s how I— I’m sorry, what?”

“So you’re an idiot.”

“I am not a… Okay, I might be an idiot. But I was a drunk idiot!” Stiles said indignantly. “I totally wouldn’t have ordered my own death if I was sober.”

“So what does your drunk self have against your sober self, then?”

“You know, you wouldn’t be the first person to ask me that today.”

He heard a long sigh and then the click of the pen again. Stiles really hoped that meant she was crossing his name off the ‘to kill’ list or something. He wasn’t sure how things like that worked. But Stiles really didn’t want to die today.

“So… am I good then? Cause I’ve already come in contact with Derek Hale and his sexy murder brows and I have to admit, I’m not a fan.”

“And his  _ what?” _

“Um, nevermind,” Stiles said. “Forget I said anything after 'am I safe now'? Because I really want to be safe. Can I please go home?”

“Let me get in contact with Derek.”

Stiles sighed and rubbed at his face, deciding he was never going to drink again. He deserved a day-long nap after this and he was going to punch Scott for letting him get so drunk. Okay… no, he wasn’t. Stiles was going to punch his past self. Because his past self sucked.

One minute too long passed. Stiles filled nervously with his phone and debated being ‘that annoying customer’ when the woman’s voice came through again. But this time, she almost sounded strained.

“Yeah, Derek’s not picking up.”

“He’s not…  _ what?” _

“I can’t get in contact with him. He’s turned off his phone.”

Stiles stared at nothingness for a moment, trying to formulate words. This couldn’t be happening. This  _ couldn’t  _ be happening. “So, can you like, track him down or something?”

“Yeah, no.”

“Stop sounding so impartial to all of this! I can’t die, woman, I’m only twenty-five! I still have my entire life ahead of me!”

“Maybe you should’ve thought about that before you ordered your own assassination.”

“Okay,” Stiles said. “That’s uncalled for. Care to help me, oh I don’t know, not die? Because I’d really rather not die.”

“You could tell him that.”

“He’s trying to put a bullet in my head!”

“I meant before he kills you.”

Stiles closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Panic was rising in his throat and he was doing his best not to freak out, but it was getting hard. “Alright, I can’t keep calling you the phone woman in my head, so do you have a name?”

“Erica.”

“Got it, Erica. Can you  _ please  _ get in contact with Derek sexy murder brows and ask him not to kill me?”

Stiles could’ve sworn he heard laughter on the other side of the phone and that really wasn’t fair. Stiles was not in the position to be amusing, dammit. He clenched his jaw and opened his mouth to possibly say some things that weren’t appropriate for the PG-13 tag, when there was the sudden sound of screeching tires and Stiles startled so hard, he dropped his phone to the jeep floor. 

He threw a glance over his shoulder and let out a squeak when he saw the man climbing out of the black Camaro parked behind him. Because this wasn’t fair— this wasn’t  _ fair. _

Stiles did not deserve to die this way.

There was a gunshot and he ducked down as a hole shattered through his windshield. Stiles let out a string of curses and threw his gear shift into drive, hitting the gas. Roscoe was getting punished for his drunken sins. Stiles was never going to forgive himself. 

Faintly, he could hear Erica’s panicked voice through the speaker. And after this was all over, he was going to have a serious conversation about customer service.

If he got out of this.

Oh god, he was never going to get out of this.

**Author's Note:**

> There was this prompt I decided I wanted to write and after being told on Tumblr it should be a thing, here we are! It's probably going to be a crack-filled ride, but that's where the fun is, right? Of course, the kudos/support you guys leave makes my day. I'd love to hear what you all think!
> 
> Come hang with me on Tumblr!
> 
> [the dumpster](https://when-she-writes-stuff.tumblr.com/)


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